


The Winter's Tale

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [66]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birthday, Birthday Presents, Cupcakes, F/M, Food, Romance, Surprise Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28135185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: Rukia's and Byakuya's birthdays.  Hijinks ensue.
Relationships: Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Rukia, Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana
Series: A Thin Red Line [66]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	The Winter's Tale

_Focus_.

Breathe in through the nose.

Breathe out through the mouth.

Rukia’s focus sharpens into something akin to control. Not full control, but it’s getting closer. _So very close_. 

The frost that sprawls out from her zanpakutō comes fast, but the area is specific. Her attack can be a flash-freeze, not a tundra.

This breakthrough is _monumental_. Perhaps she can control this power, make the range smaller, more precise. The possibility of targeted attacks becomes a glimmering lining of hope after months of foundering.

“Amazing, Rukia,” comes a voice that she knows so well, even despite its waver. 

Regret crests, strangling her throat as tight as a garrot. 

She’s the one who put the waver in his voice.

It’s her chill, her frozen sharpness. They protect her, have kept her safe for so many years and in so many ways. She’s all winter and ice. Coldness shields her more readily than warmth ever could, but, bit by bit, she defrosts. Just like now. 

She defrosts both as a fighter and a lover.

When her color returns and the heat of blood rushes back into her veins, she follows the trail of Renji’s voice. “Thanks,” she says, raggedly, skin stinging from the winter’s chill. 

“You’re improving so much.” Renji takes a few paces forward and examines the tree now turned to frozen glass.

Rukia smiles, short and sweet. “You, too.”

His head dips down, and Rukia’s readying a protest for any attempt at humility he reaches for. 

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, defying expectation. 

The muscles in Rukia’s jaw burn, squeezing tight, and her fingers curl into her hand. Short, jagged nails bite her palms. The pain tethers her, reminding her that it’s frustration gnawing at her nerves, not his apology.

He needs to stop apologizing, though. She’s already accepted it; she believed him the first time. But….

Rukia chews on her bottom lip. Renji doesn’t think she’s forgiven him. No sane person would because of her distance, her silence. And, distance and silence are so easy to misinterpret as pain, betrayal, and lords know what else.

It isn’t any of those things. At least, not any of those things turned like blades on him. 

“Stop it,” she says, pointedly. “Like I’ve said, it’s not your fault.” 

“I should’ve said something sooner about the assignment. I should’ve told you and Ichi—”

A raised hand and a quiet “no” is all that’s needed to bring the silence.

There’s nothing he should’ve done. He executed an order from his captain, an order that in all honesty was fairly benign. Even if it hadn’t been, it wasn’t Renji that drew her ire. It was Soul Society. It was the Captain-Commander. It was the leadership. 

Ichigo deserves better. All of the Karakura kids deserve better. But, the Gotei 13 is what it is. There is a process, a way of doing things, an inertia. And, it’s gonna take more than Ichigo or Renji or her to change it.

But, just because change is hard doesn’t mean they should stop trying.

Also, it wasn’t _just_ the order involving Ichigo that pissed her off the night at the cabin. Sure, it was a large part of why she yelled at Renji and stormed out into the night, but there were other things: It was late. Her plans had been deep six’d on so many levels. She was upset with herself, with him for being late, and…. 

Well….

She had been scared. 

Scared of herself, of her inexperience, of what they had almost done. She thought she was ready, but she wasn’t. 

She wasn’t ready to set aside her armor. Even now that armor feels every bit part of her as her own flesh. But, it isn’t. And, she’s gonna have to cast it aside for this relationship to work.

Inhaling a deep breath and squeezing her eyes shut, she turns to him. “I was being a cranky idiot. And, yeah, you should’ve told me sooner, but you weren’t wrong. And, it wasn’t just that. It was other stuff, most of which didn’t involve you or anything you did. It was me, too.” The words rush out of her, fast and inelegant, but there they are, hanging between them, feeling armed and ready to explode.

Opening her eyes, Rukia’s half-expecting to find Renji staring at her with that startled look of his, the one where his chin pulls into his neck and he opens his hands as if to will the temperature to lower. 

But, he isn’t doing any of those things. 

Instead, he pulls her into an embrace. 

His warmth burns through her winter, eating through the chill of her bankai, the remnants of which still cling to her. 

It takes a few moments to acclimate, to let down her guard, and, when she does, she sinks against him. Her fingers hook into the fall of his black silks, and she inhales a deep breath. The summery scent of turned grass and dates fills her nose and chases down her throat. She can almost taste him, and it comforts her, just as it always did, beginning when they were good-for-nothing street-rats.

“I love you, Rukia Kuchiki,” says Renji, face buried in her hair, words muffled and low. “I’ve loved you for a while.”

She yanks her head back in time to witness the vulnerability that crosses his face with the darkness of a storm cloud. 

_This idiot!_

How dare he try to steal her moment of vulnerability with a _bigger_ _moment of vulnerability_! 

He already got the first ( _alleged_ ) confession of interest and the first kiss. Now, he’s the first to admit he’s in love? What other firsts does he want? 

Not one to be outdone, Rukia lifts her head, sets her jaw, and is about to give her own full-throated confession, but he stops her with a kiss.

_Renji!_

She curses his name inwardly just long enough for his tongue to convince her to forget her pride. 

And, she regretfully admits that she isn’t a tough sell, either. 

* * *

This is the day. Game day: January 14th, Rukia’s birthday. Renji’s got this. In fact, he’s got this shit _nailed down_. And, he’s been telling himself that he has _got this_ ever since he fell out of bed that morning. 

He had ordered the birthday cake, or _cup_ cakes to be precise, a _month_ ago, and the Upper Crust Patisserie is his first stop before heading into the office at the Thirteenth. 

He is _ready for success_. There will be _literal_ blood if anything goes wrong. He has Zabimaru ready to go _just in case._

Renji shoves open the heavy glass door. The bell hanging over the door chimes, and the patisserie owner, Natsuko Ukitake, emerges from the kitchen. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy bun, apron already stained red, likely from the guts of some innocent berries, and flour powders her nose and chin. 

“Vice Captain!” she greets. “Come over here and take a look at these beauties.” Popping open the pink cardboard box protecting the confections, Natsuko waves Renji closer.

 _See?_ He’s got this. No way Captain Ukitake’s sister was going to let him down. 

Renji clasps his hands behind his back and peers into the box. Golden happiness threads through him at what he finds.

Smooth white fondant tops each of the cupcakes’ domes. Bunny ears have been expertly molded and centered on said domes. At the corner of the right ear on each cake is either a fondant flower or bow. Two feminine curves of dark brown edible paint serve as the bunnies’ eyes, and small pink rectangles make up their noses.

“These look great!” he says, inspecting the tiny details of the bunny-shaped treats.

“As promised, strawberry buttercream is underneath each topper,” says Natsuko, voice breezy. “I take it these are for a friend?” 

“That obvious, eh?”

“You just don’t seem like the bunny cupcake type.” She gives him an apprising onceover: Eyes narrowed; brow arched; lips pursed. “You’re more of a canelé guy,” she concludes.

Renji has absolutely no fucking idea what a _canelé_ is. A fact that he must express with all the subtly of a blinking neon sign because Natsuko immediately produces one from a nearby case. 

“Here: Try. I’m usually right about these things.” She winks.

Never the type to turn down _free food_ , Renji gobbles down the treat in two bites. It’s light, sweet, and has a tangy caramel-flavor. “Not bad!” 

She’s right. The canelés are more his style than fancy-ass cupcakes.

“Here, take some back to the Thirteenth. On the house. Just make sure to hide them from Jūshirō. I’m sick of getting flak from his dentist.”

Renji grins. “Deal.” 

Natsuko packs up the goodies and hands Renji the bag of boxes. “Hope Rukia likes them,” she calls after him.

A cringe pulls the muscles of his face taut. “Thanks,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder to find her pressing her lips tight together, eyes sparkling with mischief.

So much for being covert. Although, in retrospect, rabbit-shaped cupcakes probably weren’t the _best_ choice if elusiveness was the goal. Either way, it’s Captain’s Ukitake’s sister, and Captain Ukitake takes tea regularly with Lady Kuchiki, who has likely spilled the beans about his and Rukia’s relationship. Natsuko was bound to know regardless.

Now, that he’s thinking about it….

Who _doesn’t_ Lady Kuchiki take tea with?

With her new committee appointment, she is in regular contact with almost all of the captains, some of the vice captains, and a metric shit-ton of nobles, too.

She wouldn’t tell everyone, right? Surely, she would give them some privacy. She is very discreet. Or, at least, she knows the meaning of the word “discretion” _unlike some of his other friends_.

Just before Renji has the chance to break out in hives, he bumps back the glass door with his shoulder and steps onto the street where he narrowly avoids mowing down Lady Kuchiki and the lady at her side. 

Slamming to a halt, Renji inhales a sharp breath as soon as he feels the boxes of treats begin to shift in his arms. Lady Kuchiki catches the top box filled with canelés before it can spill out of the bag.

“Vice Captain Abarai!” she says, eyes wide as she clutches the box fast against her chest. “Sorry about that.” 

“No. The fault was all mine. I guess I didn’t see you there.”

The woman standing beside Lady Kuchiki giggles into the fluffy white fabric of her scarf. “I take it _this_ is the Vice Captain of the Thirteenth,” she says, brows climbing to an insinuating height.

_Who the fuck is this woman?_

Neither her face nor voice rings any bells, and she isn’t dressed in the Shihakusho despite it being a workday. Her kimono looks to be expensive; a nice glossy pale blue with snowflakes embroidered at the hems. But, she doesn’t have the standard-issue Kuchiki willowy build or their sharp jawlines and cheeks. Her face is round and her eyes and frame are soft, almost inviting. 

If she’s a Kuchiki, it’s because she married into the clan.

“Yes,” says Lady Kuchiki with a note of approval and returns the box of canelés to his bag. “This is Vice Captain Renji Abarai.” She then gestures to the woman at her side. “Vice Captain, please meet my dear friend Lady Suiko Kuchiki.”

Renji and Lady Suiko exchange quick pleasantries before Suiko turns to Lady Kuchiki and offers her a farewell. Renji doesn’t miss the knowing sparkle in Lady Suiko’s eyes when she waves goodbye to him.

So, _everyone_ knows about his relationship with Rukia. Probably even Captain Kuchiki. 

_No, most definitely Captain Kuchiki._

The hives are coming. He can already feel a prickling itch ghost across his chest.

“Boxes from the patisserie,” observes Lady Kuchiki. “Would it be presumptuous of me to guess that these are for a certain someone’s birthday?”

Blood flushes Renji’s cheeks. “Pretty obvious, huh?”

“Any big plans?” asks the Lady, falling into step at his side.

“I was going to the Sixth to give these to Rukia, and, then, maybe gather up a few friends to get dinner and drinks near the Eleventh.” 

“At the dive bar?”

Suddenly, the urge to die hits him, and he isn’t sure which part of the Lady’s question has dealt the killing stroke. Was it hearing the words “dive bar” leave her prim mouth? Or was it the fact that she _knows_ there _is_ a dive bar near the Eleventh? Also, how _does_ she know this? Did Rukia tell her? Has Rukia _complained_ about his undying love of said dive bar?

“That was the plan,” he replies, mustering just enough courage to glimpse her from the corner of his eye.

Lady Kuchiki appears to be in thought, an unpleasant one. Or maybe he’s just imagining that. Maybe she’s considering his plans for Rukia’s birthday. Maybe she’s _judging_ his plans for Rukia’s birthday.

Sirens blare in his head, and he isn’t quite sure what to do in response. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, words cutting up his throat, “I really should’ve asked if you had something planned already. Rukia didn’t mention anything so I kind of assumed that you didn’t, but it’s totally fine if you do. I can reschedule for tomorrow or the weekend. Or whenever, really. Just say the word, and I’ll back off.” 

That urge to die? It intensifies when he hears the rambling noise spewing from his mouth. The same rambling noise that the Lady is ever so politely waiting to end so that she may respond.

Lady Kuchiki tilts her chin up and smiles at him. “Oh, no. I assumed you had something planned for tonight.” 

While the Lady’s tone is mild and her expression is neutral, all Renji can think of is how much she must hate the fact that he’s taking her baby sister to a dive bar with a bunch of rowdy roughnecks. 

What an _idiot_.

“I mean, maybe I could do better than a dive bar,” he stammers, hands white-knuckling against the bakery boxes. 

Lady Kuchiki glances up at him. “Oh?”

Was that a neutral “oh,” or a “yes, please do come up with something better you giant oaf, this is my sister’s special day we’re talking about” kind of “oh”? For the sake of clarity, Renji assumes the latter.

This assumption, however, brings him to the real rub: There are a few fancy restaurants in the noble districts that are better venue options for Rukia’s birthday bash, _but_ he’s too broke to afford any of them. Never mind the fact that he’d need some big-time connections to get in even if he wasn’t two months too late to make a reservation. 

What was he thinking? He absolutely does not “ _got_ ” this. What he’s _got_ are rabbit-shaped cupcakes and a dive bar with a bunch of foul-mouthed heathens as attendees. This isn’t romantic or special. This is awful. 

Rukia’s going to dump him at the dive bar. _Then_ , she’s going to find a nice noble who knows what iambic pentameter is and who will recite sonnets _in_ iambic pentameter while sprinkling fucking rose petals over her as she enters a proper birthday party venue with cultured attendees who don’t think slams with hyphenated modifiers are the highest form of _art_. This noble fuckface that she’s gonna leave him for will probably even know what a canelé is, first time asked, no questions. Probably _grew up_ with canelés _and_ shoes _and_ poetry.

_Asshole._

“Is everything alright, Vice Captain?” asks the Lady, voice gentle and calm. “You look unwell.” 

Feeling the heat of her stare against his neck, Renji panics and says, “Maybe we could have the party at the manor.” Which, in retrospect, is really a dumb thing to say. But, there it is. The words hang between them like dumbbells, ready to slam to the ground.

As Lady Kuchiki stares at him—her face perfectly unreadable—embarrassment crashes through him. 

Instantly, Renji is reminded of the time where he stood up in the middle of a lecture room at Academy and proudly gave the wrong answer for five minutes straight. He’s half-expecting to hear the sounds of noble hemming and hawing at how dumb he is, which only worsens his panic, prompting him to add this little gem: “Or maybe that cabin would be a nice alternative.”

The Lady’s brows pull together. “The lake cabin?”

What the fuck did he just say? No. He absolutely never ever wants to revisit that cabin. Not after last time. And, he strongly suspects Rukia could live another century without seeing it, too. 

“I can arrange that for you, if you’d like.” Lady Kuchiki gives a pensive nod of her head. “I’ll send a courier with a key to the Thirteenth and have a chef on call to aid you in the dinner and drink preparations.”

Flabbergasted, he just gapes, mind going blank. When he finally comes to—a protest ready on his lips—the Lady is gone.

_Well, fuck._

* * *

It doesn’t occur to Rukia that it’s her birthday until she crosses the threshold into the Sixth. Along with her usual call-and-response with the “good mornings,” she must also thank her subordinates for their “happy birthday” well-wishes. Also, her first piece of correspondence for the day comes from Sister, which specifies the time and place for her birthday lunch. 

It’s their tradition.

When Rukia served at the Thirteenth, it had been custom to do birthdays up: treats, goofy decorations, _singing_. Rukia had _loved_ to pitch in for others’ parties, but she sort’ve _hated_ the attention when it was her turn. 

The Sixth, however, doesn’t _do_ birthdays. Brother thinks they are indulgent, undignified, and gaudy. So, Rukia has taken matters into her own hands. 

Instead of individual parties, she has instituted monthly lunches to celebrate all the birthdays for that month. It’s easier to manage, everyone gets a nice meal, and no one gets embarrassed or accidentally forgotten. Plus, Brother doesn’t have to know. He probably thinks they’re all doing some regularly-scheduled bonding activity, which, in principle, he approves of.

 _Brother_ , she muses mid-sigh and takes a seat at her desk. _He can be so stubborn_. 

Then, as she pulls the first drawer out to collect her ink and brushes, she sees _it_. Her heart stops. Her blood pressure drops. She blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.

 _It_ doesn’t go away. No, _it_ is very much there, real, not a product of her active imagination. _It_ being, of course, a tightly wrapped _gift_.

Rukia withdraws it slowly. Hands shaking. Fingers numb with the chill of anticipation. 

The wrapping is bright blue with multi-colored Chappies dancing across the paper. A big silly red bow, one with tightly curled tendrils of ribbon, shimmers and bounces with each tremor of her hand. 

_Oh, Brother_. A half-grin curves a corner of her lips as she peels back one of the edges neatly, careful not to rip the _work of art_ that is the wrapping. 

Sliding a thick black box out, she slips off the top to find a war fan inside.

Grin inching wider, she snaps the fan open. It’s made of iron and bamboo, and its leaves bear the Kuchiki crest in cobalt blue on one side and the Squad Six camellia insignia, also in cobalt blue, on the other. 

It is a thing of beauty.

“Thank you, Brother,” she murmurs, holding the fan to her chest, where she keeps it for a few long heartbeats before proudly tucking it into her obi.

* * *

So, Renji thought he had it together. He’s there in the Disaster Cabin, _on time_. The Kuchiki chef showed up on time as well, helped him prep the dishes, and gave him advice on the complicated aspects of the meal. Renji even remembered to disinvite the _crew_ from the dive bar.

The last part, however, was a _mistake._

A big, ole, giant _mistake._

He should’ve let the little band of heathens assemble at said dive bar, become raucously drunk, and then— _and only then_ —send them a text saying he and Rukia got held up on some Kuchiki bullshit. 

They would’ve understood. Or, at the very least, they would’ve been too intoxicated to take much offense. Either way, this was the winning solution.

The _Nice Guy_ strategy of telling them beforehand was doomed to backfire on him, something he would’ve realized if he had thought about it for longer than two seconds.

But, here he is—boiling water and preparing noodles—when he hears a loud banging coming from the den. It sounds like fists cracking against wood, and, when he doesn’t immediately rush to open the door, _yelling_ comes. At first, it’s a murmuring, loud enough to reach him in the _kitchen_ , but he can’t make out the words. Then, it grows and amplifies and _morphs_ into _insults_. Because, of course, _insults_. He’s ignored the pounding at the door thus far.

“What?” growls Renji, flinging back the door, hands wringing in the slack of his apron. What he finds ushers in a sense of raw, unbridled panic.

He gapes. His jaw goes slack. His eyes widen, and he feels the burn of his brows reach higher than they’ve probably ever gone to his recollection. 

Just what the ever-loving _hell_?

“We were worried,” explains _Rangiku_ , who pushes past him into the cabin as if she owns the place. “You don’t just _quit_ on a friend’s birthday party like that!” She says the words with such authority that it actually makes him wonder if he’s committed some unspoken _faux pas._ Is there some volume on the _Way of the Vice Captain_ that addresses birthday parties?

 _No_ , his rational brain intuits. But, the way that Rangiku then Hisagi, Momo, Izuru, Yumichika, and _Ikkaku_ saunter into the cabin’s den makes Renji question a lot of things. Like decorum, friendship, and the amount of _faith_ his _friends_ have in him _not to fuck things up_.

“I _didn’t quit_ on Rukia’s birthday party,” seethes Renji, clicking shut the door behind _Captain Hitsugaya_.

Holy fuck. Rangiku really just dragged her captain along with her to _this_? 

Renji’s shocked. He’s appalled. And, as much as he wants to order them all out—toss them onto the street on their collective asses—he can’t now _with a fucking captain in the mix_.

Which, on review, is probably the _point._

_Infernal woman . . . ._

Renji _glares_ at Rangiku. How _dare_ she? She knew what she did, bringing her captain here, as a preemptive strike against any of his possible counters.

“It’s her first birthday as a Vice Captain,” says Rangiku, hands on her hips, chest puffed out with authority. “We need to make sure she knows she’s one of us, that she’s welcomed. It was very impolite of you, Renji, to change the plans so _dramatically_!”

 _Dramatically?_ He was the one who organized it. The gall of these people!

Momo takes a tentative step forward and offers Renji a sweet smile. “I brought goodies,” she says, proffering a white box of what he suspects to be cookies.

Renji takes it, trying his best to master his disappointment at the _scene_ that spreads before him in gruesome detail. “Thank you,” he murmurs under his breath. 

One sniff is all it takes to confirm his suspicions. It’s cookies. The sweet scent of chocolate and sugar fill his nose, chase down his throat, and draw a growl from his stomach.

“What is this place, anyway?” growls Ikkaku, who _flops_ across the blue couch, the very one that Renji had napped on only weeks ago. 

“Why are _you_ here?” asks Renji, feeling the burn of his brows pulling together.

“To make sure you don’t mope like an idiot,” says Ikkaku, who flails for a moment before his arm comes over his eyes. 

“Yeah,” chimes Yumichika, “we were worried that you might….”

“I might _what_?” asks Renji.

“Well, that you might be in over your head.”

“How?” Renji exclaims more than asks. 

This is _insulting_. Incredibly so. He doesn’t need _help_ to make a simple dinner and enjoy Rukia! Who _are_ these people?

“C’mon, let us help out,” says Rangiku, head cocked as if she’s hopeful he will submit.

“We can finish the dinner!” Izuru’s voice filters into the den through the kitchen.

Holy shit! Dinner! With heart pounding in his neck, Renji picks up the pace. “Everything okay in there?”

“Yeah. All good,” replies Izuru, who stirs the noodles with a wooden spoon. “Nothing’s on fire.”

Okay, that’s not _great_. Nothing being on _fire_ is pretty baby-basic shit. It shouldn’t be the bar to which his culinary skills are measured. 

“Are the noodles okay?” asks Renji.

Izuru nods. “They’re good.”

Momo bursts into the kitchen, slipping under Renji’s arm. “I can help!” she offers. “Let us do this! We both really have been searching for a _good_ gift to give Lady Rukia.” Hope glimmers in Momo’s large eyes, and, well, Renji’s always been a sucker for hopeful glimmers.

Exhaling a hard breath, he capitulates. “Alright,” he says under his breath, “the recipe is over there.”

Momo turns in the direction of Renji’s chin jerk and takes the thin piece of paper in her hands. “Oh,” she hums, “this is very detailed.” She shares the piece with Izuru who nods.

“All the stuff has been prepared,” says Renji, nodding his head in the direction of the prepped food, sauces, garnishes, and oils. 

“Very good!” says Momo and claps her hands together. “Go. Go. Go!” she adds, waving Renji away. “You need to waylay Vice Captain Kuchiki.”

 _Waylay?_ Renji’s thoughts stutter at the word. 

Momo, however, must read his confusion with ease because she offers a soft, “Yes, Renji! We want this all to be a surprise. Izuru and I will work on finishing the food and drinks. You need to wrangle the rest to make sure they have good hiding places.”

“Hiding places?” questions Renji.

Momo nods her head. “Yeah, so Lady Rukia doesn’t know we’re all here, right? It’s a surprise!”

True. Rukia is _definitely not_ expecting _them_ tonight. Not after the message he sent her, which had been, _‘Do-over at Disaster Cabin?’_

It had been a painful _three hours_ waiting for her to respond limply with an, “Okay.” And then five more seconds later with a smiley-face emoji. 

She had been right to send the smiley-face because a second later he would’ve had to clear his calendar to spend the rest of the day fully contemplating each letter in her tepid, “Okay.”

“I think she’s coming! Shuuuuush,” _hisses_ Rangiku in a hoarse whisper. “Places!”

Twisting the fall of his apron in his hands, Renji barrels out of the kitchen, frown on, brows furrowed. “I hope not,” he announces, entering the living room, “she’d hear all the racket you’re making.”

He knows full-well Rukia isn’t outside the door. Her spiritual pressure isn’t anywhere nearby. Rangiku’s probably spooking at the branches rustling against the logs of the cabin.

“Also, _Ikkaku_ , sleeping on the couch isn’t a hiding space,” chastises Renji, stopping just outside the vestibule.

“It’s an old battle tactic,” Ikkaku growls defensively.

“Ah, yes, the Great Hiding in Plain Sight tactic,” quips Captain Hitsugaya.

Renji blinks. Hard. _Did Captain Hitsugaya just make a joke?_

 _Did that really just happen?_ Before he can fully appreciate the rarity of _humor_ from the captain, Ikkaku _starts._ “See, Captain Shorty knows,” he snaps and thrusts his thumb in the direction of the diminutive captain.

“What did you just say to me, Madarame?”

“You’re short. What?” For a moment, Ikkaku appears genuinely perplexed. “It’s a fact.” A flash of recognition slowly lights his eyes as he comes to the realization that the captain’s height is a sore spot. Realization quickly turns to blood-thirsty _opportunity_. “Wanna fight over it?”

Renji’s heart picks up its pace as his thoughts scatter to the priceless antique knickknacks that sound them in all directions. Visions of shattered vases and candles and things _—candles and things worth a lifetime of his current wages—_ fly through his mind’s eye. 

Somehow this would all be his _fault_. He can just hear it now, ‘ _That idiot, Renji, destroyed the Kuchiki’s lake cabin. Not a log or splinter left of it now.’_

They’d probably memorialize this colossal failure with a plaque: _Here lies the rubble of a once grand Kuchiki cabin. The perpetrator of the destruction was dragged and quartered._

“She’s almost here!” barks Renji, raising both hands out, as if to will cooler heads to prevail.

It’s only a _flicker_ , but he feels her presence like she’s standing right next to him, and, by the way things are going tonight, he needs every second he can get to order these dolts into place. 

“Now, places,” Rangiku murmurs ushering her captain, Yumichika, and Hisagi to hiding places around oversized pieces of furniture and sharp corners. 

“Off the couch, Ikkaku,” Renji orders with a firm snap of his fingers.

“I’m hiding in plain—”

“Off.”

Grumbling to himself, Ikkaku obliges, but not a moment too soon because the door swings back just as he knocks Yumichika out of his place, leaving him scrambling for purchase behind the couch.

Renji stares, mouth open, at the display. 

_Wild boars are better behaved._

“Hey!” Rukia’s voice enters before she emerges from the vestibule.

At least she sounds peppy. Must’ve been a good day at work. Maybe Captain Kuchiki took it easy on her for a day.

 _Probably not_.

“Hey,” Renji responds.

“Smells good,” she says, voice muffled by the sounds of her kicking off her waraji and shrugging off her coat. “I’m starved.”

“Yeah,” he responds _weakly_ , voice suddenly pitching up more octaves than he knew he could reach.

“Everything alright?” The question hits him a second before his eyes find her through the shadows of the entryway.

But, there she is. Hair a little damp at the ends, cheeks pink from the cold, and eyes gleaming with mischief.

Before he can answer her question, she reaches up and pulls him close.

Every fiber in his body braces. 

_Not now_ , he wants desperately to say, but she has no idea what is going on when she reaches up for a kiss. And, with the memories of just how bad their last interlude here went, he obliges her. Maybe a kiss would assuage the _mortification_ of a _surprise birthday party_.

How did this go so far off the rails, again?

“Is something wrong,” she asks, pulling back, blinking.

A long moment later, and Renji is pretty sure not even his heart dares to beat for it would be far too loud. _Then…._

_Clang._

_Smash._

_Bang._

Rukia’s eyes widen, and her attention tears to the kitchen, where Momo has dropped a platter of some sort, likely in _shock_ of not knowing what to do when the prompt to yell surprise had been overtaken by a kiss.

Izuru stares out behind Momo, frozen in shock.

“Happy Birthday!” _sings_ Rangiku, as if the force of her call can undo the gawking looks coming from… well… _everyone_ who has suddenly appeared from their hiding places.

“Wait. They’re dating?” Renji vaguely hears Hisagi, ace-reporter that he is, say confusedly to Rangiku.

Rukia stares at the display of well-meaning Vice Captains and then Captain Hitsugaya. 

Is she _horrified_? Mortified? Homicidal? Her expression doesn’t reveal much, which, if possible, worries Renji more than if she had just turned around to wallop him with a fist to the face.

Mind racing. Blood pressure sky-high. Renji vaguely hears his own voice in his ears. “Listen,” he says, taking Rukia’s shoulders in both his hands, “they were insistent on surprising you.” His voice drops to near silence. 

Rukia blinks, her eyes finding his, but, before she can respond, he continues on whispered breath, “This was. Not my idea. I—” 

Before Renji can complete his thought, Rangiku interjects a calm, “Don’t blame Renji, Vice Captain Kuchiki. We imposed because we thought Renji was trying to hoard you to himself, and we wanted to make sure you felt integrated into the Vice Captainship.”

“Yeah, Lady Rukia, we just wanted to make sure your birthday was spectacular,” Momo chimes in with a hopeful glance.

Rukia turns to each Vice Captain and smiles brightly. 

“I’m sor—” Renji begins, but Rukia shakes her head. Stuffing her hand in his, she squeezes hard. 

“It’s sweet. Really,” she murmurs softly.

“Well, let’s eat,” grumbles Ikkaku. “I’m hungry.”

Trading glances, Rukia’s smile falls slightly into something more amused. More of a smirk. “Let’s eat,” she agrees and takes a long stride forward.

“Happy birthday, Rukia,” Renji murmurs from behind her.

* * *

_Seventeen Days Later . . ._

* * *

Byakuya traces his way around the engawa, careful not to trigger some surprise “happy birthday” nightmare. 

He’s still spooked from his experience earlier in the day. His subordinates thought it was a good idea to _hide_ then _jump out_ and _cry_ “happy birthday” when he opened the door to the office that morning. It was extravagant, a terrifying spectacle. 

In response, he immediately side-stepped said spectacle—a macabre combination of rainbow streamers, pastel-colored sweets, and hideous party hats—and hid in his office. 

He isn’t hopeful that this thought, which possessed his beloved sister, has spared his lovely wife, and, really, he hasn’t the fortitude for another gauche display. So, with breath held tight in his chest, he slides open the door to his room and braces himself.

“Lord Byakuya,” greets his wife and only his wife.

A quick glance tells him that he’s safe. Actually, he’s better than safe. While his beautiful wife hasn’t forgotten his birthday, the celebratory display is a quiet one. 

Tea, lovingly prepared, awaits him, and Hisana dons his favorite red kimono, the one he purchased for her as a wedding gift.

Offering him a mild smile, she steps to his back and takes his coat, scarf, and captain’s haori. “Rukia told me about the party at the Sixth today.”

He tenses a little and prepares for a gentle upbraiding at his response to Rukia’s efforts. 

“I thought you might require something a little quieter tonight,” she says instead. Her gaze flicks down to the floor, a small half-smile curving a corner of her lips. 

Before he can say anything, she has settled behind the table with the tea preparations. 

He watches her clean the instruments for a few silent moments. Her hands are so practiced, her mind so set. Grace imbues each movement, drawing out the motion of preparing the cup and the whisk. It’s a performance, through and through, one he loves dearly. 

But, one she rarely undertakes now.

Dipping the water ladle into the pot, she fills the tea bowl, and she whisks the matcha. Once finished, she turns the bowl three times before offering him the bowl with a sweet bow, one that he reflexively reciprocates.

He takes the bowl, turns it twice, and drinks.

Before, Hisana can slip away, his fingers encircle her wrist, and, with the lightest touch, she stops. The dim evening light battles both the inky night and confusion as it flickers in her wide eyes. She blinks. Then, realization sets in, turning her confusion to amusement.

“Is something the matter, milord—” 

Before she can get all the words out, he has her in his arms. All it takes is a tug. Her body is pliant and warm, and she smells like green tea and white plums and everything he loves.

“What kind of establishment do you think this is, Lord Kuchiki?” she asks, voice muffled but playful against his chest.

“An accommodating one.”

She pulls back slightly, cheeks flushed with blood, and grin stretching across her face. He knows she’s going to rebuke him. He can see the words forming in her head, ready to be shot like bolts through apples.

He preempts her attack with a knowing glance, “Many fine establishments have _accommodated_ our numerous indiscretions.”

That wipes her face clean. “We were young once,” she offers up as meager protest. 

Intrigued by the scarlet that creeps across her face, Byakuya doesn’t see her fan coming when she slaps his hand away.

He cups her face in his good hand, the one that isn’t currently stinging, and tucks a long strand of hair behind her ear. “We are still young.”

“Well, I am,” she says with a smirk, “you’re a year older. Happy birthday.” She kisses him on the cheek. Her lips are cool, their press light.

One kiss is never enough, especially one so chaste. He keeps her beside him, hands gripping her shoulders, fingers sinking into her silks, and he kisses the skin where her jaw meets her neck.

“Milord,” she breathes, voice ragged, “your tea is getting cold. I want you to have a pleasant birthday.”

“I am having a pleasant birthday.” His mouth trail down the curve of her neck, and he feels her weight shift against him. Her body—once so taut and tense—begins to melt. She lifts her chin, inviting him to continue, which is an invitation he gladly accepts, fingers plucking at the ties to her obi.

“It’s not over yet.” The press of her small hands against his arms stops him for a heartbeat. Just enough time for her to pull away, allowing a sliver of space to part them. 

Heady, mind unfocused, his eyes lock with hers. Staring, it takes him a long moment to recognize the expression glimmering in her gaze. _Anxiety_. Yes, his wife regards him with anxiety, as if she has some grave news to report.

“I—” she begins, but her lips shut abruptly and twitch, as if the words filling her mouth burn, but she doesn’t want to spit them out. He can see her struggle, from the way she bites her bottom lip to the flickering of her stare. 

“Hisana.”

Meeting his gaze, her fingers twine around his, and she brings his hand to her obi. She leans forward. Her eyes, wide and searching, glisten with anticipation.

Then, he feels it. Beneath the silks and fabrics, beneath her warmth, beneath her skin and muscle, there is life. Not only her life, but a spark of something else. Another life, one with its own unique signature.

Hisana is with child. 

Byakuya’s eyes fall close, and he inhales a deep breath. “How long have you known?”

“Only a few days. The physician said the babe is strong for its development.” Hope builds in her voice, but it is tempered. She is waiting for him to say something, to respond. He can almost hear the hitch of her breath in her chest.

Opening his eyes, Byakuya caresses her cheek with a long stroke. “This has been a very good day,” he says, draws her into his arms, and brushes a soft kiss against her brow.

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! I'm back... at least for this one chapter. It took a while to get out of my funk, but I had 2/3rds of this chapter written before I discontinued the story, and, feeling somewhat better for a variety of reasons, I thought I should post it so, at the very least, it won't magically disappear if my computer breaks or is somehow destroyed in another horrendous move (like last time). Also, the last chapter was a depressing one to leave off on (even if slightly apropos of 2020). 
> 
> As always, many thanks to anyone who has faithfully trudged along with this story for the *years* it has spanned. You all are fabulous and your kind words have meant so much; I hope this chapter brings some holiday cheer to what has been one hellish year. I don't know if this story will ever be fully complete, but, at least for now, I'm leaving it open.


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